


Ruined by a single sweetness

by dotfic



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Pie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-04
Updated: 2014-01-04
Packaged: 2018-01-07 10:40:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,503
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1118919
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dotfic/pseuds/dotfic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel had not intended to be doing this on the Men of Letters kitchen floor that day.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ruined by a single sweetness

**Author's Note:**

> a/n: set at some point late season 9, or after. Title from Pablo Neruda.

Being able to work with his hands, the solid physicality of it, makes the ache of Castiel's lost grace lessen, whether it's digging graveyard dirt, drawing sigils, firing a crossbow, making a hot mug of coffee, or sex. It's difficult when he's sitting idle, or forced to wait. The worst is when he's trying to fall asleep and can't escape the vortex of his own memories--being able to travel thousands of miles in a blink, of being able to heal with a touch, of watching civilizations fade away and new ones rise, of his siblings, of the rustle of wings, of the things he regrets.

The transience of the life he has now is frightening. It's not so much the fragility of his own body--although he is acutely aware of that too--but of humans. Especially Dean, who rests beside Castiel in the darkness, with warm skin and taut muscles gone pliant, the weight and bulk of him, scrapes and scars, sharp bone and soft flesh. 

Some nights Castiel just moves himself closer to Dean under the blankets. Often Dean mumbles and stirs, seemingly asleep, but he'll move his arm to settle it across Castiel's chest or let a hand fall on his hip. Then Castiel drifts off quietly, the race of his mind soothed. 

Sleep is a blessing but can be treacherous as well. There are times when Dean thrashes in a nightmare, and Castiel wraps himself around him and talks to him until he calms. Castiel is more prone to insomnia than nightmares, but when he does have them, they're fierce and surreal, or familiar but unpleasant events altered to something even more horrifying. It's always Dean's voice and touch that brings Castiel back to himself.

Castiel discovers the preparing of food offers and contains its own set of comforts. Castiel doesn't have Dean's apparently effortless, almost careless skill with it. He doesn't go about it the way Sam does, either; Sam treats it as a practicality. Castiel finds something in between, burns half the things he tries, but it turns out he makes the best hot chocolate of the three of them, and is pretty good at mac and cheese. Also he can make pie. All kinds of pie. 

It starts out simply enough with apple. Castiel can admit to himself it's not merely the process that he finds satisfying. Cutting the fruit, rolling out the dough, getting the right amount of spices and sugar, the transformation of things from one form to another, these are all good. It's also the expression on Dean's face as he puts a forkful in his mouth, the noises he makes as he relishes the taste. Castiel progresses to peach, pumpkin, cherry, strawberry rutabega, key lime, apple cranberry, mince. He even attempts chicken pot pie although the attempt doesn't go at all well.

Dean is down in the shooting range one day, the bunker falling into a hollow quiet, Sam gone to meet up with Charlie to see if the triple murders near Kansas City are of supernatural cause or not. (Charlie thinks they are, Sam is skeptical. Sam was arguing with her on his cellphone as he left). Castiel decides to return to the simplicity of apple pie after a string of failed kitchen experiments.

He makes the dough, then peels and cores the apples. Before long his jeans and t-shirt have smudges of flour and his skin has gone sticky with sugar and juice.

"You smell like cinnamon," Dean says, suddenly right behind him, and Castiel startles.

He was very absorbed in his work, which is the only way Dean could manage to get into the kitchen without him noticing. Castiel turns to see Dean's smirk--he always seems so proud of himself when he succeeds at sneaking up on him. _Batmaned,_ Dean calls it. _See how you like it, Cas._

"Hello, Dean," Castiel says.

Stepping closer until his chest presses against Castiel's back, Dean kisses Castiel's neck, tongue flicking against his skin. "You taste like cinnamon too." He starts licking and kissing a line up towards Castiel's jaw, and Castiel's skin grows hot.

He attempts to keep his attention on rolling out the dough, but Dean is licking at the sugar and flour stuck to Castiel's cheek near the corner of his mouth, and it is very difficult to concentrate. Especially difficult since he is growing hard, and Dean is pressing him against the edge of the counter, hands traveling down to Castiel's hips, then fingers roving under the waistband of his jeans.

"I have to finish the pie," Castiel says calmly, although his heart is a trip-hammer.

"So, you'll finish it soon." Dean's fingers work open the button of Castiel's jeans, then slide down the zipper. "C'mon, Cas," he says, breath warm against Castiel's ear.

"But the apples will brown," Castiel says, but he turns to meet Dean's kiss, pushing his tongue into his mouth.

Dean pulls out of the kiss and grins like he's about to make the most lascivious suggestion ever devised by human kind. "So…put lemon on them."

There are a few slices already cut. Castiel manages to squeeze some of the lemon juice over the apples before Dean takes his hand, making him drop the slice. Dean guides Castiel's fingers up to his mouth and sucks on them. His other hand explores farther down against Castiel's skin.

It's too much. Castiel stops even pretending to continue with his work or bothering to stifle a groan. He turns so his body presses hard against Dean's, pushes his hands up under Dean's shirt, tracing the landscape of his chest, kissing him again. It's hard to tell any more whether the sugar and cinnamon and lemon juice he tastes is on Dean or on himself. Castiel's jeans are open, and Dean reaches down to unbutton and unzip his own.

How Castiel winds up on his back, jeans and boxers down around his knees, Dean working him open with fingers slicked wet with spit and pre-come is one of many interesting conundrums about Dean, since Castiel had not intended to be doing this on the Men of Letters kitchen floor that day. The floor tiles are somewhat chilly but it hardly seems to matter as he sucks at the skin of Dean's collarbone. Castiel licks and bites, knows he's leaving marks that will show later and not caring--he doesn't think Dean cares either, given the sounds he's making. 

Still thrusting with the fingers of one hand, Dean traces his mouth down Castiel's body, pushing up his shirt with his other hand, lips brushing over the warding tattoo. Then Dean moves down to Castiel's bared hips. Castiel pushes his fingers into the short spikes of Dean's hair as Dean sucks and bites gently at the jut of bone, licks the skin with a slow swipe with his tongue. He does the same to Castiel's other hip, eager and thorough, and Castiel can hardly keep still.

"Dean," Castiel rasps out. He's impatient, aching, and hard, needing more. 

Dean draws away for a moment, tugging his own jeans and underwear down before he pushes his fingers back in, a hard deep thrust that makes Castiel arch his back.

"Are you going to keep messing around like this or are you going to fuck me?" Castiel snaps.

He enjoys the way Dean's eyes change at that, the heat in his stare, the way he licks his lips and swallows hard. Dean gasps and then lets out a curse when Castiel's fingers circle Dean's cock and his tongue finds the hollow of Dean's throat. He strokes Dean, slow and hard, Dean's groans resonating through Castiel's own body as if he's a tuning fork. 

Dean's fingers slide out of him, that movement in itself oddly pleasurable, and Dean grabs his wrist, pulling Castiel's hand away. The temperature of the kitchen floor seems to have risen by many degrees against Castiel's skin, or perhaps it's the other way around. Dean pushes in, body curled around Castiel's from behind. Castiel's hands find Dean's thighs, urging him closer and deeper, his breath catching with each thrust.

It doesn't take long for Castiel to fall over the edge, Dean buried far inside him with his hand wrapped around Castiel's cock. He calls out Dean's name as his orgasm shudders through him. Dean presses his mouth to the base of Castiel's neck, tongue flicking against the skin a moment before Dean quickens his thrusts. Castiel turns to look, wanting to watch Dean unravel, marveling at his face, how he falls to pieces and it's Castiel's doing. It's as if he's put Dean back together and taken him part in one way or another, over and over, for a long time now. There's the hot rush as Dean comes inside of him, Dean's groan in his ear, the now rare utterance of his full name, _Castiel_. 

There's an emptiness after Dean slides out, before Castiel covers Dean's mouth with his own, and kisses them both down to earth.


End file.
